Blonde Over Blue
by addicted2fic
Summary: Sherlock considers his feelings for John while they share a hotel room for a case. Nothing much happens. A bit fluffy, sort of.


The case was interesting enough to merit Sherlock getting out of the flat, and that was something, but the case is not actually the point. The issue was a passing comment made during Sherlock's investigation of the case.

One of the victims was a newlywed; her husband, as expected, was devastated. He had said something along the lines of it hurting so much…it was the worst thing he could possibly have imagined. His sister, who was comforting him, had her young son with her. _Off school with a very minor illness, likely pleased about it, thought it would be a good day. Wrong._ The boy had asked his mother if that's what love was, when the worst thing you could imagine happening is a person you care for being hurt. She told him that that was a big part of it, and he had hugged her fiercely.

Sherlock, of course, overheard all of this.

Sherlock was back at the hotel room that evening, going over the case. John had gone out for a walk. As he pondered the case it occurred to him that any harm coming to John really was the worst thing he could image. _When did I become so 'sentimental'? _

He needed to think; he needed to smoke.

Sherlock went out and bought a pack of cigarettes. He would have smoked them on his way back to the hotel, but it looked like it might rain, so walked quickly back instead. Approaching the hotel Sherlock decided not to smoke out front, because John could come back at any minute, and he wouldn't want to be seen. So Sherlock went back to the room, opened the pack, and took out a cigarette. _No, _he thought,_this is a non-smoking room and John will smell it_.

It occurred to Sherlock that he didn't want John to witness this little relapse, because all he could picture was John's 'disappointed' face, and he really didn't like it. He shoved the cigarette he had put between his lips back into the pack and threw out the whole thing.

Unfortunately, he still couldn't relax.

He thought about John.

_What does John like to do to relax? John likes to relax with a) a cup of tea b) a hot shower or bath c) a nap d) a book or e) sex; not necessarily, but occasionally all of them in that order._ Since Sherlock lacked the desire and ability to, have tea, sleep, read a book, or have sex, he decided on a shower. A bath would take too long.

Gradually his skin became pink under the steaming water but try as he might, Sherlock could not relax. He distracted himself for a time with the business of rubbing the shampoo into his hair and rinsing, but he still felt tense. _I cannot possibly love John simply because I can't stand to think of him in pain. _To help him relax he pictured John having a shower, _How does it work for him, that he leaves the shower calm and content? _

It quickly occurred to Sherlock that picturing his physically attractive flatmate naked in the shower was not a good way to distract himself from his potentially sexual feelings for the man. Prompted by that thought though, his brain went into overdrive to deny that John was simply attractive because of his body. _John is… kind and patient and intelligent and funny and silly and brave and caring and compassionate and selfless and loyal and__** John**__._

Really, as far as Sherlock could tell, he was the epitome of 'goodness', the embodiment of it. It occurred to Sherlock belatedly that wanking during a shower imagining his best friend naked in the shower was surely something he ought not to have done. Though wanking was almost certainly the sort of thing John might actually have done in the shower to relax. _Too late now,_ and he did admittedly feel at least somewhat more relaxed. Perhaps he would be able to focus on the case.

Sherlock left the bathroom, drying off partially as he sat on his bed, facing away from the door. He was naked but for the towel in his hands which was drying his hair when John entered. "Oh…sorry" John said. Sherlock wrapped towel around his hips, and walked toward John, passing him to get the hotel bathrobe from the closet. _His eyes are bright, breathing accelerated, he's run back, a bit wet from the first raindrops, but not significantly, is glad for it._ Sherlock smiled at John, who smiled back. Sherlock switched the towel for the robe. "It's just started to rain." "I gathered." he responded. Sherlock dried his hair a bit more.

He went into the bathroom and hung up towel, but didn't close the door all the way as he turned on the hotel hairdryer to its lowest setting. John knocked and asked if Sherlock would mind if John brushed his teeth. Sherlock moved over. As John brushed his teeth, Sherlock turned off the dryer and twisted some curls a bit, so the locks would stay together, and left the bathroom. "I didn't mean to stop you" John says, toothbrush in hand and mouth foamy, sticking his head out of the bathroom to talk to the loosely robed Sherlock.

"What?" "I didn't mean to stop you, drying your hair" "You didn't… I'm done" "...But it's not dry yet." Sherlock hesitates momentarily. "It curls better if it I let it air dry, but I don't like it to be soaking wet until it does." "Huh." John says "Is it annoying?" John asked, Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "Your hair, I mean. It's just that I've never really needed a hairdryer. I just use a towel, and only if I've got time. Course it probably makes no difference to you, you've always had curly hair." He said, dismissively, then returned his head to the bathroom, and his toothbrush to his mouth. "No I haven't." "Huh?"

Sherlock had no idea why he was talking, none of this mattered remotely to the case, but frankly he enjoyed talking to John, and correcting assumptions. "I had mostly straight hair until puberty. A bit frustrating at first, but it's grown on me." "No pun intended" John added, with a bit of a smile "What makes you so sure?" Sherlock replied, completely straight-faced. John laughed, Sherlock gave a crooked smile.

John took his pyjamas into the bathroom and changed, when he was done, Sherlock was also in his pyjamas, hands together under his chin, heels on the seat of the chair he was occupying. "Thinking about the case?" "Hmmwhatnoyes" he replied. "Sherlock?" "Of course I am, John, what else?" "Right. Course you are." John moved to the bed. Sherlock got up to turn out the lamps. He left the light in the shower on, and the door open a crack, to find their way in the dark if need be.

"Whatcha doin'?" "Turning off the lights." "Don't tell me you're going to sleep now." "I'm not." "Well then why the lights?" "You'll sleep better in the dark, and I can think without light." "Oh, thanks Sherlock." "Goodnight, John."

Sherlock sat with his back against the headboard of his bed to think; sleeping, after all, was a waste of time. He was not far off solving the case when he become aware of John again. He was thrashing about, groaning, and calling out orders, "…get down! On the ground, enemy in- STAY DOWN!" He was panting and yelling and it all sounded quite unpleasant, so Sherlock got out of bed and tried to wake him. Simply calling his name didn't work, so when John finally woke up Sherlock was shaking his shoulders rather violently.

All John remembered from his dream was an explosion, and lots of people injured, children, but it was fading. "What is it, are you all right? What's happened?" John sat up quickly. Sherlock's hands, still on John's shoulders, slid down his arms to his elbows, before letting go. "Nothing, it's all right, you were just making noise" "Oh, sorry, I'll try not to. Someone told me I snore once, I didn't believe her really, just thought she was annoyed that I'd complained that she did." he said, and running his hand over his face. "Just roll me onto my side next time, that's supposed to stop you snoring. Didn't mean to bother you." "You weren't snoring. And when you do, which you do, it doesn't bother me. It was the things you were saying that bothered me." "Oh" John said, instantly embarrassed, worrying about exactly what kind of things he had said, his dream since forgotten. "You were having a night terror about Afghanistan, John. I wouldn't have woken you, but you sounded distressed and it was… bad."

They remained silent for a minute. Sherlock stood and moved toward his own bed. Turning back he said "Are you alright?" "It was just a nightmare Sherlock, I'm fine" John answered, as he realized his shirt was drenched in sweat. _Night terror, there's a difference_, Sherlock thought to himself. "Alright" he said. Sherlock sat as he had been, back to headboard, as John got up and went to the bathroom. He took a very short shower, just to wash the sweat off himself, dried, and went back to sleep, without his shirt, on a less sweaty spot of the bed. Sherlock did not sleep more than a few hours that night.

They wrapped up the case in the morning. Truthfully, Sherlock had solved it in the night, but he decided allow John his sleep, and get some himself, since the culprit wouldn't be going anywhere in her attempt to lie low. She was the proprietor of a lingerie store/sex shop that had sold something to all of the victims. And she thought she'd been so clever, only killing customers who'd paid in cash.

They had left the 'do not disturb' sign on the door, so when they got back from delivering their findings, all of their papers, photos of the body dumps, bits of evidence, and news articles where still in place. As they packed up their belongings John tossed some bits of paper into the rubbish bin, where he noticed Sherlock's abandoned cigarettes.

He picked them out of the bin and held them up to Sherlock. "What did you need these for then?" he asked. "I didn't." Sherlock had glanced at the pack, and resumed packing. John opened the pack and looked at the cigarettes, none smoked. "I'm doing well." There was a pause before John spoke. "I'm really proud of you right now, Sherlock", he said and tossed the pack back into the refuse. "C'mon, lets go" Sherlock's eyes were wide and vulnerable as he looked at John's reflection in the room's mirror, but John, who was walking towards the door with a small smile, didn't notice. If Sherlock Holmes were a sentimental man he would have been contemplating the distinct warmth forming in his chest. As it happens, for all his denial of it, Sherlock Holmes _is_ a sentimental man.

Oh the train ride back to London, Sherlock spoke to John. "Explain something to me." "Explain something. To _you_?" John asked, as if clarifying. His eyebrows were high, and Sherlock, looking out the window, waited for John to become more serious. "Right, yeah, sorry. What?" John said, his eyebrows closer to each other now, mouth closed. "You said you were proud of me." "Yeah, 's'true." "But I don't understand…", Sherlock said, now looking into John's eyes. "why?" "Because, Sherlock", John said, matter-of-factly, "you wanted to smoke, and didn't." "Yes, but I nearly always want to smoke, and almost never do. So why were you so…pleased?"

"Look, I don't know what it was, but something made you want to smoke a lot more than usual. Last time you smoked you thought Irene was lying in the morgue. You've got nicotine patches for everyday sort of cravings, but instead of using them you left the hotel, found a shop that was open on a Sunday evening, bought cigarettes, and preceded to smoke exactly none of them. I don't need to be an addict to know that that took a hell of a lot of willpower." John paused, "Sherlock, you don't have to, but if you'd like, we can talk about it, whatever made you want to smoke, or anything else, no matter what it is. It's all fine, and if there's a problem I'll help you sort it out." "Thank you, John." "You're welcome, Sherlock. Anytime".

And it was distinctly possible that Sherlock Holmes was in love.


End file.
